


My Will Is Thine

by Yalu



Category: Once Upon a Time in Wonderland (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Flashbacks, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Fluffy Ending, Gang Rape, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Panic Attacks, Physical Abuse, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Slavery, Slavery, Triggers, also somehow fluffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-09 08:54:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17403875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yalu/pseuds/Yalu
Summary: Five times Cyrus's masters raped him, and one who let him say no.Written for my "rape/non-con" hurt/comfort bingo square.





	My Will Is Thine

 

1.

Mistress Shaimaa was one of his earliest masters. She came across the bottle at a market and started polishing it three days later. Cyrus had been climbing the walls for months by that point, the novelty of magic long worn off and too full of a young man's energy to stop and think. She was pretty enough, shy, and it was all too easy to charm her into keeping him out of the bottle and in her bed. 

For a while it was the happiest he'd been since the fire. Mistress Shaimaa was sweet, easy to like, and she'd had so little attention from men that she had no interest in ending their affair. Every so often she'd hinted at marriage, of making some false identity for him and using her last wish to free him. For a while he'd even been tempted to take her up on it. 

" _Cyrus!_ " Mistress Shaimaa called, rolling over on the sheets. "Cyrus, come back to bed!"

The compulsion yanked on him, and he was walking away from the window before his mind caught up, before he could think to say, _Actually, it's a lovely view, why don't you come and join me?_ It took a second longer to remember to smile. "Again?" he asked lightly. "You haven't had enough?"

She giggled. "Never. Come and make love to me!"

 _You wanted this_ , he reminded himself, climbing over her and kissing her the way she liked best. _It's not as though it's a bad thing._

Several times a night, though, and again in the morning... he'd never expected her to have that kind of appetite. He was humiliated the first time he couldn't keep up, but she just giggled and said, "Get it up, then!" and that solved that.

He came to hate those giggles.

Mistress Shaimaa had been poor when she found his bottle, poor and alone, and she had wished for a steady income and for many friends; she bought pretty new clothes and told them all she had a handsome suitor who was away on business, or too busy working, or something, but after a while the excuses ran thin and she'd come home complaining that they doubted her. 

"Mistress, if anyone but you were to see me they might realise what I am and try to take me away from you," he would reply patiently.

It displeased her and he knew it, and said it exactly the same way every time to let her think it was some compulsion from the bottle. She never thought about it, just pouted or whined or scowled, and one day, when he timed it to interrupt the height of her complaining, she snapped, "I wish they'd _never_ know!"

Back in his bottle, transported from Shaimaa's home to who knows where, Cyrus sighed happily and sank into his cushions. Idly he wondered what would happen when Shaimaa tried to tell her friends about him, if the magic would spite her or just silence her, and realised he didn't care. From the deserted look of the place outside it would be a while before another master found him, and until then he could be gloriously _alone_ – no magic, no mistress, no sex. It sounded wonderful.

If Taj had been there, he would have roared with laughter.

 

2.

Mistress Ghada was clever. She worked it out on the first day, when she told him to "wait there" and came back to find him frozen in place, and quickly tested the limits by ordering him to walk, sit, stand and so on. She was the kind of master who already knew exactly what she wanted, and took all the time needed to heed his warnings and prepare her wishes in detail. She sat at her writing table making notes for an hour, and spent another pondering them as she looked into the fire. 

"Kneel," she said suddenly, and pointed at her feet. "There."

There was nothing in her tone; not anger, not curiosity, not desire, and Cyrus had had enough masters since Shaimaa that it didn't immediately occur to him until she planted her feet against the front legs of the chair and pulled up her dress. "Pleasure me."

Cyrus couldn't hesitate, but as long as he was taking some kind of action to follow an order the curse didn't force him, so he moved forward slowly, watching her face to see if this was a test of some kind. But no; she rested her chin on her hand and was looking at the papers, an impatient finger tapping on her knee. He kissed the knee, the inside of her thigh, meaning to circle inward as he wound her up, but Mistress Ghada tapped him on the head and said, "Now."

He jerked forward nose first into her and licked. She shifted, muscles tightening by his ears, and the hem of her skirt slid over his hair. She breathed out, relaxed, and the pen scratched over paper. 

Later, he realised that it helped her think – or, that she told herself it did; he never was able to work out if she accomplished more when he was attending her. She left him in his bottle most of the time while her first wish unfolded (a complicated one involving three business and a moneylender, leaving her ridiculously wealthy without raising suspicion; people nearly always wished for money first, he'd found), but kept him around in the guise of a servant while plotting her second (some kind of intricate revenge against her sister's husband, shaming him publically in such a way that freed the sister from the marriage). He had to admit, he admired the precision of her plans; she never suffered any ill consequences from what were technically small wishes. In that long-ago life where he had delighted in conning others, he might have liked her. 

Six months of suffocating under her skirts made that unlikely. Mistress Ghada did a lot of thinking.

Sometimes he missed Shaimaa. She'd laughed. She'd happily assumed they were in love, and acted like it; she'd enjoyed seeing him climax, even gone down on him sometimes for his sake. Mistress Ghada left him painfully hard and sometimes made him wait, standing in her study once she was done with him, sometimes for hours before dismissing him back to his bottle. By that time, all he wanted to do was to wash, over and over and over. 

He missed Shaimaa until the day he realised there was no difference between them at all.

Duly warned by Cyrus's answers to her many questions, Mistress Ghada was very careful with her third wish. She was wishing for security, and had three pages prepared listing all the things that would be unable to hurt her, with caveats and exceptions down to the detail of a snake poison which could not affect her in lethal doses but would have normal analgesic effects when administered in diluted or powdered form by an apothecary with expert knowledge of their craft. The last part outlined how neither she nor her sister or any of their children, friends, or loved ones would ever encounter another genie, nor be victims to wishes granted to others by any genie.

When she was done she took Cyrus' bottle to the market and sold it for a fair price. 

 

3.

Masters Khayyam and Zahid weren't really Cyrus's masters, but Master Basim was, and he ordered Cyrus to obey his friends as if they were, so it didn't matter. 

They were young, about the age Cyrus had been when he was cursed, though they seemed to him like screaming children. Cruel, violent children. 

They liked to beat him, laughing because he had to take it, delighting in their power. They made him bow to them, steal for them, made him run naked through the market and juggle knives till he cut himself, made him humiliate the boys they didn't like and grope the women they were too afraid to approach – whatever their devilish minds could come up with. It wasn't until more than a week had passed that they thought to rape him.

Khayyam started it. They were drunk, or they'd never have been brave enough, but Khayyam was the one who made it a dare. Master Basim was even stupider drunk than sober and dared him back. Cyrus hadn't been paying attention, standing in the corner of the room and trying to think of nothing at all, until he found himself ordered to kneel on all fours, remove his trousers, and stay still. 

They were either stupid or had never explored this before; they didn't think to find something greasy until Master Basim started feeling the burn, and Cyrus would have smirked if it hadn't been so much worse for him. 

He lasted two minutes before he screamed. They laughed and struck him, mashing his face into the dusty carpet. They called him a woman, pretty and delicate, and while Khayyam lost himself in thrusting, Zahid yanked Cyrus by the hair and forced himself down his throat. Cyrus gagged and choked, and they laughed harder. 

Master Basim, ever the follower, went next. 

In all, Cyrus was their slave for less than a month, and when he was finally, _finally_ sent back to his bottle, he curled up in his cushions and sobbed. 

 

4.

Master Afif was one of many, many others. They all blurred together eventually: Mistresses who liked that he was handsomer or could be dominated the way their husbands couldn't, masters who used him to satisfy the cravings they couldn't admit to – it didn't matter. He was theirs to use as they wished. He stopped caring. Sometimes he couldn't even remember which were which. 

Except Master Afif. Master Afif was very fond of whips. Then he discovered silver.

 

5.

Mistress Hadil was a plump woman who doted on her grandchildren, gave bread to orphans and said "Thank you, dear" to Cyrus whenever he handed her what she asked – _asked!_ – him to fetch. Bedding her wasn't a chore, even if he wouldn't have chosen it.

She never hurt him, and the parties weren't too difficult either. Mistress Hadil hosted or attended parties practically every night, and nothing made her happier than parading around with a handsome young man on her arm. She didn't have any ulterior motives, she just enjoyed feeling desirable, and found it funny when her friends put on polite smiles and tried not to stare.

And they did stare. His mistress always dressed him in flimsy clothes and spent most of her time slipping her fingers under what might generously be called a shirt. If it ever covered more than one nipple at a time, he was lucky. Cyrus kept his chin up, smiled and ignored it.

Mistress Hadil only ever gave Cyrus two orders: to keep up the pretence that he was an ordinary man who chose her freely (not hard, the last time a master had let slip that he had a genie he had died in the brawl) and to enjoy being with her.

She meant it kindly, he was sure. She probably never realised it was an order. "Come and enjoy the party!", "You're going to love this", "Just lie back and enjoy it, dear". 

So he did. He had fun at the parties, he was aroused by her silly sexy dances and jiggling body, he climaxed easily and flopped bonelessly onto her bed, _wanting_ her. When he was with his mistress he was happier than he'd been since the best days with Shaimaa.

And when she was away or sent him back to his bottle, the false feelings slipped away and Cyrus, the real Cyrus, would sit by himself, numb and hollow as a doll. 

 

+1

Alice never ordered him to do anything. She didn't have to: he wanted her, wanted to make her smile and laugh and moan and scream. Being with her was blissful and clean and innocent, and that first night in their tent when she tugged him toward the bed, bold in her virginity, he wasn't thinking about the others at all. 

Until she collapsed on top of him, heavy sweaty flesh and heaving breath and long hair blocking the light and pinning him down and it was too much too dark choking heavy no no no no–

"Cyrus? Is this normal? Cyrus! I'll get some water–"

Space. Light. He could breathe a little but his limbs were locked up, frozen ( _don't move, it's Master Afif, don't move don't move_ ) and his heart was hammering and he felt sick. 

"Here, it's a little warm, but–"

And it wasn't her fault, it wasn't, but when Alice reached for him, all kindness, nothing bad ( _Master Khayyam with the fire iron, Mistress Zahra's sharp nails_ ) he jerked back, pushing himself up to sit and backing away, backing up, backing _away_ till he hit the headboard with a smack. 

The jolt helped. He had space. He could breathe. Slowly, the panic receded, and Cyrus hugged his knees to his chest and breathed.

Kneeling halfway down the bed, cup of water trembling in her hand, Alice looked stricken. "I'm so sorry..."

"No, no, it wasn't–" he sucked in air, more air, there was never enough. He breathed out, back in, back out. "It wasn't you."

In. Out. 

In.

Out. 

Cyrus shook his head and smiled for her. "I'm all right, it's nothing."

"You're _not_ all right! Mrs Rabbit didn't say anything about this! This cannot be normal! What is _happening_?"

"Alice–" He reached for her and it was easy. Easy. Touching her was comforting. He felt a little of the cold melt away. "Alice, I can't explain... not in any way you'd understand..."

He didn't have to tell her; even as his lover it wasn't her right to know if he didn't want to share. And she shouldn't have to know. Here was a woman who had been handed absolute power over him and it had never _occurred_ to her to misuse it. So often it brought out the worst in people. So often he saw no sign this would be one of _those_ masters until they realised there would be no consequences. How could he tell her that he saw Afifs and Ghadas in everyone now? Who was he to spoil her happy world?

_She's not a child. And she asked._

He took her hand and squeezed, a reassurance and invitation in one, and she carefully shuffled up to sit beside him, thumbs sliding over his knuckles, and waited.

"I–" His throat seized. Breathe in, breathe in... The backs of his eyes burned and he blinked hard, but the tears slipped out anyway. Alice gasped.

"Oh, Cyrus, please, this is hurting you." She squeezed his hand. "Please, you can tell me anything."

But could he, really? Would she regret her naïveté? Would she wish she didn't know? Would she back away, disgusted by what he– what he–

It wasn't his fault but it didn't make a difference. 

Cyrus breathed. 

A minute later, an hour, maybe three, he had a sentence he could bear to say. He braced himself and still felt seasick. "Some of my masters ordered me to– do things–" he choked "–and just now for a moment it was like I was back there and it-it– I panicked, and– I should have warned you, I'm sorry, I didn't think it would..."

Alice was drawing away, blinking at him. It took her a moment.

Then she growled, "Where are they?"

"Alice–?"

She stumbled off the edge of the bed, darting round to snatch up her sword and stood there, naked and glorious and furious. " _Where are they?_ "

Cyrus felt a tiny smile creep over him. Righteous, beautiful Alice, she really would march across all of Wonderland right now if she could. He almost wished she could. But no.

"They've probably been dead for years," he said softly, "and any who aren't are well out of our reach."

Alice grit her teeth, seething. "I could wish–"

"Please don't."

She stood stiff, clenching the hilt and shuddering a little, trying so hard not to say anything, it broke his heart and mended it all ar once. "Cyrus, that should never have happened. Not ever, not to you, not to– Why would they do that to you?"

"Because they could."

She turned and set the sword on a table, shaking her head, bewildered by his resignation. "Were they all like that? Is everyone so cruel?"

In his mind Cyrus could hear Mistress Aisha chuckle as she made yet another terrible pun, or Master Alim singing lullabies to his children and pleading with Cyrus to harmonise. He smiled and shook his head. "No. No, some of them were very good people. They joked with me. We played cards. Sometimes it was like having friends."

Alice carefully, carefully sat back down on the bed beside him, watching him like a scared cat and– no, he couldn't handle that, not that kind of caution. He reached around and pulled her against him, relaxing into the feel of her skin like it had been earlier, when they first toppled onto their bed, before– Before. "I'm so happy you found me."

"I don't want you to ever suffer that again," said Alice. She looked up at him helplessly. "What can I do?"

Cyrus made himself smile. "You can help me forget," he said, as if that were possible, as if there was hope. "You can be patient with me. Be very, very careful what you say to me..." He took and let out another careful breath. "And can we... can we not try this again? Not tonight?"

She nodded quickly, earnestly. "Of course, of course, only when you want to."

And finally, something in Cyrus relaxed. His lungs stretched and his nose filled with the smell of sweat and sex and Alice's hair, and when he let out his breath some of the terror went away with it. "Thank you."

She smiled up at him and stretched up and – after pausing a moment to be sure it was welcome – kissed him. "I love you."

Cyrus smiled, more love than he knew what to do with spilling from him. "I _trust_ you."

**Author's Note:**

> Wow is this darker than normal for me. But I think it worked?
> 
> If there's anything that should be tagged which I've forgotten, please let me know.


End file.
